


Ignoring One's Brother

by Bumblie_Bee



Series: Childhood Holmes [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Brothers, Family, Gen, Hurt Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, Injured Sherlock, Kidfic, Lessons Learnt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-17
Updated: 2013-01-17
Packaged: 2017-11-25 21:13:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/643009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bumblie_Bee/pseuds/Bumblie_Bee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he was eleven Mycroft ignored Sherlock's yells and later regretted it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ignoring One's Brother

**Author's Note:**

> Updated 29/03/2017

** Ignoring One’s Brother **

 

Mycroft was sitting at his desk, his school books spread about him for revision, when Sherlock had called from his bedroom. His voice was high, annoyingly so, and irritatingly whiney as it always was whether Sherlock meant it to sound that way or not. Sherlock was always disturbing him from his schoolwork, he didn’t seem to accept that he had work to do now, so Mycroft didn’t look up and continued reading the heavy book laying on his desk instead.

It wasn’t long before Sherlock called a second time, his voice louder and the yell shorter, sounding slightly more urgent than before. Mycroft huffed; did the boy simply not understand how important these upcoming exams were? Anyway, whatever he was yelling about was likely trivial, the sort of thing only important to a four-year-old. The last time Sherlock had yelled and yelled and he had gone running he had found his brother crouched by the window, his nose almost pressed against the glass and all because, much to his excitement, he had found a snail on the outside of his window and could see its mouth moving.

“Myc-” Sherlock started again, only to be cut off by himself as his voice turned to a soft shriek of surprise immediately followed by a short series of heavy thumps, crashes and cracks. Mycroft lifted his head, his breathing halting as he listened carefully for any signs of life in the room next door. Just as he was about to tear himself away to see to the matter a childish ‘owww’ was heard from Sherlock’s room and Mycroft turned back to his work with a tut.

It wasn’t that he didn’t care about his brother, because he truly did care, but he was older now, and he had work to do. Besides, he had always had to amuse himself as a child so why should Sherlock be any different? Sherlock was just like him in many ways; he was strangely mature for a boy so young and he was just as clever too, and his choice of vocabulary exceeded that of many of the children in Mycroft’s year, even if such words did sound strange spoken with his childish lisp.

But while Mycroft had been content to spend his younger years hidden in their library, devouring one book after another, Sherlock was not, preferring to spend his time running in the garden and searching for bugs and climbing things he shouldn’t. He was a tiring child with seemingly limitless energy and a seriously limited attention span.  

“Mycwoft?” came Sherlock’s voice through the door as he gently tapped his fist against the wood. Mycroft frowned; he hadn’t heard the four-year-old approaching. Sherlock could be eerily quiet when he wanted to be, sneaking up on people and hiding in places he knew he should never have been, but a majority of the time he could be heard all over the house, which really was saying something considering the size of it.    

“Go away, Sherlock,” said Mycroft in a considerably higher-pitched attempt of that strict voice Father had which Sherlock usually listened to.  Father was the only person who could control Sherlock, although that was probably because the young boy had already learnt the somewhat painful consequences of disrespecting Father.

“But my head hurts, My,” came the reply from the hall and Mycroft sighed. Sherlock was moaning again and his ‘s’ syllable was sounding more like a ‘th’ than ever. It was infuriating, it really was, why could Sherlock not understand that his tongue did not touch his top teeth when saying an ‘s’? He didn’t say his ‘r’s properly either, simply pronouncing a ‘w’ sound instead. Mother had said it was because he was young and would grow out of it. Father had simply said he was lazy. 

“Go and ask Mummy for Calpol then,” he replied, adding “I’m working” when there was no response to his first suggestion after a few seconds. He should have known it was strange, really, because Sherlock was rarely ill and even if he was he never mentioned it to anyone. Instead, he put it down to him being so caught up in whatever he had been yelling about in his room that he had forgotten to drink, only realising the headache a lack of fluids had caused when the tower of sorts he had made had collapsed. He could really become swept up in things, not noticing anything else when his mind was truly focused. Mycroft was honestly certain the entire population of the world could vanish and Sherlock would be none the wiser for several days.

“Myc,” Sherlock whined, banging his little fist on the door again. The door wasn’t locked and could easily have been opened with a twist of the handle but one of the merits for adults and complete nuisances if you were a child was the high door knobs in the old mansion, meaning that Sherlock couldn’t open any of the doors even if he jumped.  

“Sherlock, go and see Mummy, I’m busy,” Mycroft sighed as turned back to his books, hoping the boy would soon become bored and leave to find someone else to moan to. Sherlock didn’t leave though, and there was another dull thud as his little hand collided with the wooden door again.

“I can’t, she’ll be angwy with me,” he mumbled, and this time his voice barely loud enough for Mycroft to hear. Mycroft’s eyebrows furrowed, his annoyance at being disturbed momentarily forgotten.

“Why would she be angry with you?” he asked, confused, because despite Sherlock’s excitable and messy behaviour Mummy was rarely angry with him so long as he kept his destruction contained in his bedroom and certainly out of the formal lounge and the dining room.  It wasn’t like her to be angry at Sherlock for not drinking enough either, although she would probably shake her head at him in half-mocked despair.

“Becauthe I got blood on the carpet,” he hissed, his voice so quiet that it took Mycroft a few seconds to realise what he had said.

“What?” he exclaimed, leaping up from his seat and rushing to his bedroom door. He swung it open to reveal his four-year-old brother standing in the hall looking decidedly sorry for himself with one starfish hand clamped against his forehead. The side of his face was streaked in blood and a red river trickling down his cheek and dripping onto the cream carpet below. Mycroft felt his eyebrows shoot up as he grabbed his brother by the shoulders and hurried him down the corridor towards their bathroom.

He closed the lid of the toilet and lifted the four-year-old onto it, wiping a clean flannel over his face to clean away the blood. On inspection, he realised the cut wasn’t actually as long as he had feared, barely 2 cm in length, although it was fairly deep and still bleeding freely. Mycroft pressed the flannel into Sherlock’s tiny hand and he obediently lifted it to his head, holding it there whilst Mycroft knelt in front of him, looking into his eyes and checking the size of his pupils.

He had read about head injuries in the medical guide he had found in his Father’s study shortly after Sherlock had been born and therefore knew the effect they could have on the size of the pupil and its reaction to light. When it became clear that Sherlock didn’t seem to be suffering from anything imminently life threatening he shifted the younger boy over and pulled him onto his lap, taking over the job of holding the flannel himself. He pushed against Sherlock’s head, trying to stem the blood flow. Sherlock whimpered quietly in his arms.

“What happened?” he asked eventually, subconsciously rocking the smaller boy as they sat.

“It wathn’t my fault!” Sherlock insisted instantly, tuning his head sharply to look up at his brother and smearing more blood over his forehead.

“It’s an ‘s’ sound, Sherlock,” he corrected absentmindedly, moving the flannel back over the cut. “Anyway, I didn’t ask who caused it, only what happened.” The younger boy thought for a moment before speaking. Mycroft wondered if trying to think of a way to make whatever he had done seem not his fault.

“I climbed onto the top of the bookshelf but then I couldn’t get down and I fell and then everything on the shelf fell too and now there’s blood on the carpet and Mummy’s going to be angwy with me!” he explained. He spoke fast and the lisped words merged together and although Mycroft could understand what his brother was saying, he doubted many others would be able to. He didn’t question his little brother’s explanation; Sherlock was always being told off for climbing things he shouldn’t and it wasn’t as if this was his first fall down from whatever he had climbed either.

“We should probably see to the carpet now your head has been seen to,” he said a minute or so later. Sherlock nodded, but didn’t move. Mycroft sighed and lifted one of his brother’s little hands to the flannel, pushing it there until he seemed to understand and held it there of his own accord. He shifted Sherlock from his lap and opened the cleaning supplies cupboard under the sink.

“Do you know what you hit your head on?” he enquired. Sherlock shook his head silently and then, looking suddenly excited, ran into the hall, flinging the door on his way so that his hit the stopper with a twang. Mycroft selected a bottled and followed him from the room. He found the four-year-old in his bedroom, looking closely at the little desk beside his now shelf-less bookshelf.

“There!” said Sherlock proudly, pointing with one hand to the cluttered writing desk and holding the flannel to his head with the other. “It has blood on it, look!” The elder Holmes brother bent over the wooden surface, examining the small smudge of blood on the edge. He nodded at his brother before giving it a quick wipe with the cleaning cloth he held.

True to Sherlock’s words there really were quite a number of drying red drips on the carpet in both his bedroom and the hall along with numerous smudges on his own bedroom door where Sherlock had demanded entry. The blood came off the wood with little fuss but the stains on the carpet were stubborn and eventually he just sprayed them with more carpet cleaner and left them to soak. He had hoped Sherlock might help with the cleaning, seeing as it was his blood, but apparently, that was too much to ask.  

He found Sherlock back in the bathroom when he went to return the carpet cleaner. He was examining the cut on his head in the mirror, having climbed up onto the unit to see. The bleeding had slowed but not stopped and the skin around it was beginning to bruise. Mycroft sighed, knowing he had no other option but to take Sherlock to Mummy as it was now evident that the cut was far beyond solving by himself with steri-strips and a plaster.

“Come on” Mycroft announced, holding out his arms to lift his light little brother back to the floor. Sherlock ignored the offered help purely out of stubbornness and jumped off the unit, landing like a crouched cat on the tiles with one hand again clutching the red-stained flannel to his head. Mycroft tutted as he had seen his mother do countless times before when the youngest Holmes was reckless and Sherlock grinned cheekily up at him in response.

“Where we goin’,” he asked, as he followed his brother out of the bathroom and down the stairs, jumping down the steps and not even bothering to hold onto the handrail in case he fell. He paused about halfway down, finally catching onto where Mycroft was taking him. Hearing the lack of thudding behind him Mycroft stopped too, looking up questionably at his brother.

“She’ll be angwy,” Sherlock muttered in explanation, letting the hand holding the flannel drop to his side. Mycroft sighed, walking back up the stairs and taking one of his brother’s bloodied hands in his own larger ones. Sherlock stared up at him, his tiny, blue-grey eyes filled with worry at the thought of telling his mother what he had done.  

“She won’t be,” he insisted, grinning slightly when he caught sight of Sherlock’s disbelieving expression. “Anyway, we could always tell her it was my fault?” he offered, pulling his younger brother onto his hip with some difficulty. Sherlock nodded silently and let himself be carried down the stairs towards his parents.

***

“My?” asked Sherlock sleepily some time later as they drove back form the doctor’s surgery. He rubbed at the stark white pad stuck to his forehead absentmindedly, obviously irritated by the stitches holding his head together underneath. Mycroft reached over and batted the tiny hand away, being careful not to touch his brother’s sore head himself. He made a ‘hmm’ noise to indicate he was listening and waited for Sherlock to continue.

“It _wath_ your fault,” he mumbled, his eyes heavy and his pronunciation even worse than normal. He had been given pain medication for his head and that along with the remaining headache was making him sleepy.

“What was?” Mycroft asked, confused by his brother for the second time that day.

“That I thlipped,” he said simply. Mycroft glanced meaningfully over at the four-year-old who glared back grumpily.

“ _Sl_ ipped” he corrected himself, over pronouncing the ‘s’ sound until it became almost a hiss.  The elder Holmes rolled his eyes and then nodded, finally letting what Sherlock had said sink in. How could the fall have been his fault? He was in his room the whole time, trying to do the revision he still had not done and would likely never get done because of Sherlock.

“Oh,” he said quietly a minute later, eventually realising what Sherlock had meant. “You called for me.”

“I was thtuck and you didn’t help me!” the four-year-old said accusingly, pouting as much as his sleepiness would allow. Mycroft didn’t reply, ashamed by his lack of concern for Sherlock at the time. He had been selfish and chosen his schoolwork over the little boy who relied on him. He looked back as his brother who had flopped over in his car seat, his head resting on the edge and the white patch stark against his darkening curls. 

***

“Sherlock?” he asked quietly, gently pushing open Sherlock’s bedroom door. It was just after dinner but Sherlock was already in bed. He had barely been awake by the time they got home, and Mummy had taken him straight up to his room. She hadn’t been angry about the blood, although it was clear from the drying pink blotches that the carpet was likely beyond saving.

The lights were off in Sherlock’s bedroom, and from the light creeping around the door Mycroft could see the huddled form of his brother under the bedclothes and the plastic mixing bowl sat on the table beside the bed. He frowned, half in sympathy and half worry; it was unusual for the boy to be in bed so early, even when he was feeling ill. He was about to leave, thinking his brother was asleep, when a quiet voice came from the heap on the bed.

“My? Is that you?”

“Yeah, shall I leave you to sleep?” There was no response and he was about to turn again to leave when the bedsheets twisted and Sherlock’s pale face emerged from the top. He looked over and shook his head.

“I can’t sleep, I’ve got a headache,” he said, sounding forlorn.

“Hmm, I’d imagine you would, you bumped your head pretty hard, you know?” he said, still standing in the doorway. Sherlock mumbled something unintelligible in response and then he wriggled in his bed, moving over to the far side. He patted the empty space beside him Mycroft rolled his eyes at his demanding little brother but crossed the room and sat down beside him. Sherlock rolled over, pressing his head against his brother’s hip.

“I feel sick too,” he mumbled, and Mycroft smiled sadly, running his hand through his little brother’s messy curls.

“I did gather that from the mixing bowl.”

Mycroft didn’t know how long they sat like that, with Sherlock’s aching head burrowed against his thigh and his back leaning against the headboard, the wood digging into his spine. His legs had started to go numb when Sherlock suddenly sat up, his eyes wide and his face pale.

“Do you want the bowl?” he asked. Sherlock pressed his lips together but shook his head. Neither of them moved, and then he swallowed visibly and Mycroft was about to reach for the bowl when Sherlock sagged and let out a shaky breath. Mycroft snaked his arm around his brother’s waist and pulled his almost limp form towards him. Sherlock didn’t protest, instead leaning into his brother and resting his aching head on his chest.

“Sherlock?” said Mycroft quietly a few minutes later.  Sherlock hummed in response.

 “I’m sorry for ignoring you,” he admitted, watching his brother carefully through the darkness. Sherlock cracked open his eyes, his head rolling over his chest as he looked up. He smiled wearily, his heavy eyes slowly focusing on his big brother.

“’s okay,” he mumbled, his voice thick and slurred with sleep. His eyes drifting shut again and he burrowed further into his brother’s side.

“I wath never weally angwy with you anyway,” Sherlock added, smiling weakly. Mycroft smiled too and let his head fall back against the headboard. He now realised it wasn’t just his brother who had learnt a lesson from the fall. The boy wriggled and one bony arm snaked its way over his chest. Mycroft returned the hug and Sherlock sighed happily and then sleep finally claimed him as he lay safe and loved in his older brother’s arms.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and Constructive Criticism most appreciated.


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